


the murder meme

by carrionqueen (nightquill)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Drowning, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:41:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightquill/pseuds/carrionqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>an ever expanding collection of murder-drabbles as prompted by my tumblr followers. drop me a message with a dragon age character and i'll kill them as brutally as possible B)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sera

when her past catches up she’s not surprised — or, maybe, she is, a little; she never expected that big people could get their shit together well enough to track her down. she’s been running her whole life after all and if they hadn’t caught her in all that time, how could they possibly manage it now?

maybe it’s inquisition forces. maker knows she filled enough boots with dogshit on the way out that bloody gate for them to be scrubbing their feet for months. idiots. didn’t know what they were tossing aside.

but she doesn’t have time for smart remarks. not now. slips down an alley. into a dried up old well, comes out in some tunnels underneath the city. she’s trying to lose them. it isn’t working. it’s like _she’s_ a mage and _they’re_ the templars. or, something.

she almost laughs, though, when an arrow bursts through her breastbone - irony or something, isn’t it? - but she’s run out of wind, run out of breath, run out of time. two women catch up to her, grab her arms, hold them tight behind her back - it’s funny though, it’s all funny because her head is swimming and it’s a frickin’ _broadhead_ sticking right through her chest. the hole’s pumping black shit that she supposes is her blood. when she tries to cough, to catch her breath, it pumps even harder.

"red jenny?" comes a man’s voice, and sera tries to spit, tries to spit in his face but it’s just a dribble of red down her chin, now —

"get fucked, pissbreath," she wheezes. her body sags low.


	2. Dorian

he can taste blood on his lips and a large part of him wonders if it’s _actually_ his own. can’t be - no one touched him. his barriers had held strong. the venatori lay in corpses around him, a pretty little ring, like mushrooms in a faerie circle. but _why_ are his eyes lit with little bright sparks, and _where_ is the inquisitor?

"… dorian," lavellan’s voice is soft, his hands so, so gentle - that’s when dorian realizes that he is dying. "don’t move. i’ll get a healer. i’ll get _someone_ ,” the elf’s gently lilting voice is hoarse, catching, like hangnails on cashmere knits, and dorian just chuckles. the knife is buried eight inches into his side. if the shock wasn’t a factor he’d be out cold from the pain, let alone the blood loss -

"calm yourself, amatus." he is surprised at the steadiness of his voice. "as good friend once told me, there are worse things than dying." he reaches - the pain is setting in, now - for lavellan’s face, thumbs brushing his lower lip. such a dramatic pout. dorian finds himself wondering who will kiss the elf to sleep when he is gone. even more surprising, that is what truly hurts him, even more so than the stray dagger.

"you’re not going to die." lavellan is angry now, his voice a rattling hiss, an abject denial, a _curse_ \- dorian laughs, pulls his foolish, sun-bright lover toward him. _one last kiss_. how very romantic.


	3. iron bull

it’s a mercenary’s death, he supposes. in the rattled haze of his mind, his fingers struggle to find the buckles, to flick them loose, to shed the armor that’s dragging him into the depths. he can’t even find them in all this numbing cold.

the sea is deep and black and surprisingly still - he can see the flashes of gaatlok above, the two dreadnoughts clashing like dragons, the surface of the sea like some _other_ sky. he’d had no breath when he was flung from the ship, winded by the blast, pushed down twenty feet before he’d even realized what was going on. now, his lungs burn. he can feel the tingle of terrified nerves as his body starves for air, the crush of the ocean as he sinks deeper and deeper, the ache - oh, the _ache_ \- as his brain fights to keep itself running.

he kicks again, but it gets him nowhere. the effort of that much motion requires more air than he’s got. he manages, at least, to slip free of his boots, to let his axe fall to the deep black below. it’s very dark, now, and in his heart, he is afraid.

the voice of a tamassran rings in his ears. _shok ebasit hissra. meraad astaarit, meraad itwasit, aban aqun. maraas shokra. anaan esaam qun._ a laugh escapes his lips, the last of his air streaming out and up and on, and he lets the sea in. _struggle is an illusion. the tide rises, the tide falls, but the sea is changeless. there is nothing to struggle against. victory is in the qun._


	4. Cullen

at least he’s dying on holy ground. so many souls, each one of them better than him, have died here already… what will one more body mean, in the end? the gash across his ribs is bleeding heavily, burning with every breath. his steps are heavy, graceless. just another nameless grave. a soldier’s grave.

he staggers to a halt. he’s dying, after all, as are so many of them. there’s no use prolonging it. it’s not like he can save anyone. not with an injury like this. he’d only slow them down. with a grunt he collapses, the jolt of his armor jarring his body, aggravating the slash across his belly, the one he’s been holding tight.

"cullen," comes her voice, and he laughs at first. it’s been so many years since the demons tested the strength of his mind, and now, without the lyrium,  _dying_ on the field where so many other souls departed… it would make sense they would come to him here. how dare they speak to him with her tongue, through her lips? he struggles to find the knife he has in his boot. 

“ _cullen,_ " she’s more insistant this time, and… she’s not in his head. he narrows his eyes, grunts again at his wounds, turns - the rubble. she’s underneath it. _maker._ her hand, grasping weakly at the rocks, bricks heaving as she struggles - cullen forces himself to ignore the pain, the ebbing weakness that drags at him. he pushes the bricks aside, tries to  _dig_ —

"it’s no use, cullen. my… legs…." she is whispering. her voice is wet - with blood, tears, who knows. who cares. he has to get her _out._  he cries as his wound stretches and pulls, his armor digging into raw flesh. he is not giving up on her. “cullen,  _stop,_ you’re killing yourself,”

"does that even matter? herald…"

she laughs, then, soft and low. “herald. is that all i am? even now? maker - don’t let me die without having heard the  _truth_. i’m an imposter. everyone knows it but no one can admit it. cullen, please,  _stop._ " she’s sobbing now and he can’t feel the wounds, can’t feel the ache. he’s too weak to save her. he obeys her final command. "just… hold my hand, cullen?"

he obliges. he forces his glove from his hand, lets his skin touch hers, cold and still. she knits her fingers between his, squeezes tight - she’s alive, but barely. “you said you want the truth?” he murmurs, leaning low to the gap in the rubble. he can see her face thought the darkness. the battle is still raging, fire and smoke and screams and blood but they are out of it. “the only truth there is, is that i love you.”


End file.
